


Faunts and Satyrs

by HiddenKitty



Series: In which the Dwarves are Satyrs, because Reasons [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo is kind of a lonely child, Fauns & Satyrs, Kid Fic, everyone is a brat, idek, satyr dwarves or something, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Initially prompted by watching <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/pseuds/rutobuka">rutobuka</a> draw this <a href="http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/138416983696/a-bb-bagginshield-art-trade-with-saraduvall">fist-chewingly cute art</a>, this little whim has now spiralled into a multi-chaptered series filled to the brim with all the silliest, sugariest tropes I can cram in.  </p><p>This first section is all kidfic, but please note, later parts of the series will become gradually less safe for work...  ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Brave Soldier and the Princess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rutobuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based entirely off this [fist-chewingly cute art](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/138416983696/a-bb-bagginshield-art-trade-with-saraduvall) by rutobuka, who continues to be a glorious gift to this fandom.
> 
> [ETA April 2016] THERE'S MORE ART YOU GUYS, the amazing [Sara Duvall drew some more insanely cute kissing!!!](http://saraduvall.tumblr.com/post/141621725933/ive-been-low-key-freaking-out-with-rutobuka2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ETA 23.3.2016] Eagle-eyed Tolkien scholars (and I’m sure there are so many reading this satyr-dwarf/hobbit romantic kidfic au) will have spotted that the hobbits in the original version of this opening scene of this series would have been about 12 years younger than Bilbo, who was intended to be in his early-to-mid-teens here. SO I have gone back and re-jigged a few names, largely for my own satisfaction, and I hope no-one will mind.

On a beautiful sunny Spring day at the edge of a meadow just West of Hobbiton, things were already going wrong. Not that any of it was young Bilbo’s fault.

“No,” said Jago, sticking his chin out and glaring. He really did have very goggly eyes. “We’re playing families.”

“But families is a stupid game!” said Bilbo, stamping his foot. Was he going to have to let Jago be the Brave Soldier? That wouldn’t work at all. It would be much better the way Bilbo wanted, and they were all just being mean. 

Jago turned his back, ignoring him, and pointed to Dahlia, who was sobbing miserably. “You can be Mother,” he said. “I’ll be Father. Holman, you’re the dog. Ponto, you’re our baby.”

Dahlia’s snivelling stopped at once, and she wiped her nose noisily on her apron. She’d started crying when Bilbo told her she wasn’t going to be the Elven Princess, of course, and now her whole face was red and blotchy. It was hardly Bilbo’s fault she wasn’t princess material. Princesses had to be beautiful and special, and Dahlia Lockwood just wasn’t. 

“Stop it!” said Bilbo. “We’re playing adventures! I made a map and everything!”

Jago gave him a withering look. “I suppose you can be one of our babies too,” he said.

“But I’m the Brave Soldier! I don’t want to play families!” said Bilbo, feeling his own tears prickle behind his eyes as his so-called friends started their new game without him.

“We don’t want to play with you. You’re too bossy,” said Dahlia smugly, slipping her hand into Jago’s. Holman had dropped to his hands and knees already, wagging his bottom as if it had a tail attached. Even Ponto, his thumb stuck in his mouth, only shrugged sheepishly. Well, jolly well see if Bilbo offered to make him a princess ever again.

“Fine!” yelled Bilbo. “Just fine! I’m going to go and have adventures on my own, and none of you are invited!”

He grabbed his backpack and stomped off towards the little wood along the edge of the fields, well aware that it was further than fauntlings were supposed to go alone. Once he was past the first few trees, he found a fallen stump and sat down, great hiccuping breaths bursting out of him now that no-one could see. Tears he couldn’t keep in a single moment longer ran down his cheeks and dripped off his chin, spotting his trousers. 

He could just about hear Dahlia giggling and Holman barking out in the meadow and snorted to himself, scrubbing his wet face with a shirtsleeve. Playing families, as if they weren’t all going to spend the rest of their lives doing exactly that. Well, he hoped Dahlia and Jago got married and had a whole clutch of noisy, stupid, goggly-eyed, blotchy faced faunts when they grew up. It would serve them right. And Holman could go and get eaten by a warg and Ponto… Ponto could… well, Ponto could do whatever he liked. It wasn’t as if Bilbo cared. 

If he walked along The Water he could get back to Hobbiton without anyone seeing, thought Bilbo, and set off, swinging his wooden sword savagely through the undergrowth. 

They were all so stupid. After he’d spent the whole evening yesterday drawing his map and deciding who would be who. Mama had stroked his hair and told him it sounded like a wonderful game, and he’d been relieved and pleased and excited all at once. Especially since she’d been so vexed at dinner time. 

The roast chicken had all gone and Mama had been dishing out some apple pie when she asked if he was going to play with Ponto tomorrow like she had suggested, and he’d said no. Then she had asked why, and Bilbo explained that he had asked, but Ponto was playing with his other friends instead. And then there had been an argument.

“Why can’t you join in?” asked Mama, and Bilbo had shrugged.

“I don’t want to. I want to stay home. Tomorrow’s Washday.”

Bilbo always loved Washday. Usually he would take one of Mama’s books of maps outside and hide between the washing lines, pretending he was on a pirate ship. Up on top of Bagshot Hill the oak tree creaked the way Bilbo imagined a ship’s mast would, and the drying bedsheets snapped like sails in the wind. He’d tried showing Ponto once, but they’d got in trouble after Ponto got bored and pulled one of the lines down, so now Bilbo preferred to captain his ship alone.

“Exactly,” said Mama. “You’ll be under my feet. You need to go and play with your friends, since the weather’s going to be nice.”

That didn’t make sense, though, because Bilbo never did get under her feet, and he could always go and read in the study with Father instead, or help him bake the bread, like most days. Pointing that out had only riled her up more.

“Bilbo Baggins, it won’t do! It’s no good reading about life and not living it. You need to go and get muddy, play with other faunts, and not come back until dark! That’s settled.” 

So he had made a promise, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t like the other faunts much, and even Ponto was never as much fun when it wasn’t just the two of them. Now it was all spoiled, though he had certainly tried his best, and he didn’t dare go home yet.

Bilbo stopped under a willow tree, chewing his lip, and wondered what he should do. Sheer crossness had sped his steps enough that he would be back to Bagshot Row within an hour if he kept on. 

Maybe he should go and have a real adventure after all. Or perhaps, more likely, he would just sit around in the woods alone until teatime. He wished he’d brought a book. There were branching bur-reeds growing along the riverbank, and Bilbo pulled a few of the little round flowers off and blew them onto the water, watching them float away. He wondered where they would end up, and if he would ever travel that far himself. It wasn’t that he was averse to exploring or being with other hobbits, not really, only that he liked things to be done properly, and so few folk seemed to understand.

He could hear music.

It was faint, and it kept stopping and starting, but it was definitely music. Listening carefully, Bilbo turned and took a few steps towards the sound. It was something like a harp, he thought, but all the harp music he’d ever heard was for dancing, whereas this was slow and solemn. It was nice, though. He walked closer, as softly as he could, to find out where it was coming from.

The woods grew quieter the further Bilbo walked from the stream, and darker too, with pale sunbeams slanting down between the trees. There were a few birds calling, and a whisper of breeze in the leaves, but not much more than that, so the music was easy to follow. It led him towards a little open glade up ahead and Bilbo dropped silently down into a patch of bracken, creeping forward to see.

Leaning back against a tall beech in a patch of warm light was someone Bilbo had never seen before, and that was unusual enough. They were sitting on some sort of black fluffy cushion and scowling furiously at a small wooden harp, plucking notes that sounded wonderful to Bilbo but clearly did not please the Harpist one bit. He didn’t have a shirt on, and black curly hair hung wild down his back and grew up onto his cheeks and chin, like the Men in Bree. A beard, that was what it was called. But he wasn’t a Man, because they were huge, and this person was certainly bigger than Bilbo but not by all that much.

He was strange, and looked unfriendly, and perhaps Bilbo should have been scared, but then the person reached up to scratch his hair under the floppy hat he wore, and Bilbo squeaked in shock. 

It wasn’t a floppy hat. It was a floppy ear. And the creature wasn’t sitting on a fluffy cushion, either, but a fluffy bottom, with two hairy legs that bent backwards and ended in shiny black cloven hooves. 

Had Bilbo been looking for an adventure? Here was one, sitting right in front of him in a little woodland glade full of primroses, and now staring straight at him with an extremely suspicious glower. 

Bilbo scrambled to his feet, gripping his sword tightly. It might only be wooden, but it was better than nothing.

“Hello,” he said, noting with pride that it came out barely wobbly at all. The satyr stared at him unblinking as if he hadn’t spoken. There was a long pause. “Hello,” he said again. “Um. Can you talk?”

It nodded, silently and slowly, never taking its eyes off Bilbo. 

“I heard your music,” said Bilbo. “My name’s Bilbo.”

The satyr continued to stare.

“What’s your name?” asked Bilbo. He dared to take another step forward, and whilst the satyr didn’t exactly relax, it didn’t jump up and run away, either.

“Thorin,” said the satyr after a long pause, and his voice was terribly gruff, as if he didn’t use it much. His accent didn’t sound like any Bilbo had heard before.

“Thorun?” said Bilbo.

“Thorin,” corrected Thorin, scowling again. He had great bushy eyebrows, but the eyes beneath were rather pretty, and blue as the sky.

“Sorry,” said Bilbo, and dared a small smile. He nodded at the harp in Thorin’s hands. “I apologise for disturbing you, Mister Thorin. I like your music, it’s nice, can you do it again?”

Thorin shook his head, and put the harp down on the grass beside him without looking. He still wouldn’t stop staring at Bilbo. 

“Sword,” said Thorin, pointing.

“Oh!” said Bilbo, raising it in surprise. He gave it a dashing sort of swish. “Yes, because I’m a Brave Soldier, you see, going to fight an Evil Wizard and his goblins.”

Thorin snorted, his eyebrows twisted in a sort of confused, disbelieving frown. He glanced around the glade, as if goblins might pour out of the trees.

“A game, I mean,” said Bilbo lamely. “I’m not really going to. It was pretend. But I don’t have anyone to play it with.”

Thorin didn’t look much less confused by that. “I say,” said Bilbo thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you want to play, do you?”

There was another long pause, and then Thorin stood up. The fur on his legs ended just above his hips, except for a sparse line that ran up the expanse of his belly and widened again across his broad chest, and he had the most fascinating little flicky tail behind him. He folded his arms awkwardly under Bilbo’s captivated stare and nodded, once, looking terribly fierce. 

“Really? Okay. Um,” said Bilbo, setting down his backpack to pull out the map and the folded paper helmet his father had made. “There was going to be a king and a princess and a wizard and a goblin, and I was going to fight them and rescue her and be knighted by the king, but now there’s just us two.” Bilbo looked back up at Thorin, considering, but not for long. It was obvious really.

He passed the map to Thorin and grabbed his free hand, striking out for where the captured city lay.

“You’ll wait for me over there in the castle, like what’s drawn in the map, okay?” he said, fired with enthusiasm once more. “You’ll be my princess!”

\--

It wasn’t far from where they were to the little mossy hillock where a single thin silver birch sapling grew, and Bilbo led the way. There were several large dogwood bushes below for sneak attacks, with birches and ash trees behind them where the forest thickened out again. He climbed up and stood, hands on hips, beside the silver tree and explained.

“This is the Magical Tree, okay, and the Evil Wizard has captured the city, and you’re the Elven Princess,” he began, but Thorin shook his head.

“No,” he growled. “Not an Elf.”

Bilbo gaped. Who wouldn’t want to be an Elf? He just was about to get cross about it - couldn’t anyone just do as they were told? - when he paused. It wasn’t such a big change, after all, and there could be no doubt Thorin would make a wonderful princess of any sort.

“All right,” agreed Bilbo. “Just a princess, then. And the wizard’s tied you up here,” he grabbed Thorin’s hand and pulled him over to stand with his back against the bark and his hands crossed at the wrists behind the tree. Thorin allowed himself to be manhandled, looking bemused, but he was pliant enough, and soon Bilbo had him arranged suitably. 

He stood back and sighed. It wasn’t quite right, but Mama and Father had both insisted he wasn’t to bring any rope, so it would have to do. The long dark curly hair falling over one shoulder was a particularly good touch. “A cascade of raven curls,” said Bilbo loftily, remembering something Father had once said to Mama, and allowed himself to be satisfied.

“Now,” said Bilbo, consulting his map as he made his way back down the hillock towards the trees. There was a large and mysterious hole at the top of it precisely where the Brave Soldier’s route had been marked. It was a ragged half-circle, and a little damp at the edges, like a bite had been taken from the paper. 

“Oh,” said Bilbo in confusion. “Something ate my map.”

He looked up at Thorin, who was staring fixedly down at his hooves, as if avoiding Bilbo’s gaze. Surely not...

Well, it didn’t matter any way. He knew the route well enough and he could always extemporise if needed. Bilbo cleared his throat, stuffed the chewed map in his back pocket, and drew his sword with a flourish. 

“Fear not, my El… my Princess, I’m here now, to defeat the Evil Wizard and rescue you!” he announced, bouncing through the bushes. A branch flicked back and hit him in the eye, but no Brave Soldier would let that stop him. The bushes were the goblins, decided Bilbo, since they didn’t have many other options, and he attacked them furiously, thwacking and slashing with all the strength in his arm.

“Have at you!” he cried, glancing over his shoulder. Thorin was watching him with interest, and Bilbo redoubled his efforts. He could feel a grin spreading over his cheeks, and soon leaves and twigs were flying everywhere.

“Death or Glory!” yelled Bilbo, battle fever coursing through his veins as he smashed his sword down onto the next bush. An angry chaffinch burst forth in a flash of russet and white, chattering loud enough to startle him into sitting down quite suddenly.

Pushing a lock of sweaty hair out of his eyes, Bilbo took a moment to survey the devastation. It would do, he thought, and scrambled around to run up the hillock, twirling once or twice to slay an invisible opponent or two. The ground wasn’t especially even, and he fell over once, but managed it with enough grace to pretend it was a deliberate duck. In fact, he decided, it must’ve been the Wizard’s magic.

“I should have known!” snarled Bilbo, rolling onto his back and stabbing into the imaginary figure (far harder than he could have hit one of the other faunts, it occurred to him). “Take that, Wizard! Here ends your wicked reign of wickedness!”

He covered his mouth with one hand to mutter the Wizard’s dying curses, then leapt to his feet again, running to where his poor captured princess awaited him.

“It is I, your Highness, the Brave Soldier come to rescue you,” puffed Bilbo, heart still thudding in his chest with effort, as he fiddled with pretend ropes around Thorin’s wrists. Thorin nodded eagerly, and bowed to him, which wasn’t quite as good as a curtsey but still looked impressively royal. Bilbo bowed in reply and led him down the hill to safety, past the carnage of imaginary goblins, kicking a few skulls dismissively out of the way. 

At the bottom, Thorin looked around at the scattered leaves and broken branches, frowning a little. It had gone marvellously well, and Bilbo was just wondering what they might do next when the satyr reached up, stretching further than Bilbo ever could have, and grasped a branch of beech about as thick as Bilbo’s arm in one hand. He snapped it clean off with an almighty cracking sound, and Bilbo took a step backwards in shock.

“That’s… gosh, you’re very strong,” said Bilbo, staring as Thorin swiftly and neatly stripped the smaller shoots from the branch, then hefted it deliberately in one hand, testing the weight. He snapped it again, shortening it to about twice the length of Bilbo’s sword, and turned with a wide grin.

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what was happening. He really hadn’t considered that Thorin might be able to snap whole tree branches like twigs in his bare hands, and it took him a moment or two to recover. 

“Oh,” he said at last, seeing Thorin’s expectant look. “Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right, I think they have sent for reinforcements, your Highness. Shall we?” 

Thorin nodded, and with one smack of his stick-sword sent a large chunk of dogwood bush flying halfway up the hillock. Well, if that was how it was going to be, thought Bilbo delightedly, why not?

\--

A fair while later, Bilbo had collapsed back against the grass, laughing helplessly and utterly puffed out. The goblin-bushes were well and truly defeated, and he wasn’t sure he could’ve lifted his sword again even so. He rolled around for a bit until his giggles subsided, and opened his eyes to find a buttercup next to his nose. For a moment or two he stared at it, a new idea slowly forming in his head.

He sat up. “Thorin,” he asked, “Can you make flower crowns?”

Thorin lay beside him, arms and furry legs splayed out against the grass, panting as he got his breath back. He blinked a few times and then shook his head dumbly, as if he had never heard of such a thing. 

“Oh,” said Bilbo in delight. “I can show you how, then. Let’s find some good ones!”

There were buttercups aplenty, which was good, because the long stems were easily braided. They found some dandelions, which Thorin seemed to like, so they picked some of those too, and primroses, forget-me-nots, ragged robins, and by a stroke of luck Bilbo found some red campions, with good thick stems, that would hold the whole thing together beautifully. He wasn’t quite as good at making crowns as Father was, but he could do well enough if he tried. 

He was trying terribly hard, for once. It wasn’t that he wanted to show off to Thorin, either, or not only that. Really Bilbo just wanted to make the prettiest crown he could, because if anyone deserved that it was surely Thorin. He was easily the best princess Bilbo could have asked for, and a brave comrade-in-arms as well.

“The bluebells aren’t out yet,” sighed Bilbo, frowning down at his fingers as they wove and bound the flowers together. “Bluebells would suit you ever so. At least we found some forget-me-nots.”

Thorin nodded, leaning in close enough that Bilbo could feel warm breath against his cheek. He was watching most attentively, following every movement, although he hadn’t tried making anything himself. 

“Why?” asked Thorin at length, and his voice was so deep and so close it quite startled Bilbo. 

“Why, to wear, you silly!” he said, and plopped it, half-finished, onto his own head on top of his paper hat to demonstrate. Thorin gawked at him, mouth hanging a little open.

“Every day?” asked Thorin, and Bilbo shook his head, taking the crown back down to finish it off.

“Not really,” he said. “You could, I suppose. You wear them for parties and weddings and special occasions mostly.”

“We have braids,” said Thorin, and it was the first information he had offered of his own accord since they’d met. Bilbo stopped what he was doing at once and grinned up at the satyr, delighted.

“Braids? Like the little ones in your hair?”

“For weddings,” said Thorin, going pink in the face. He frowned again, as if annoyed with himself for having told, and Bilbo jumped to his feet.

“We’ll do both then,” he said, and settled the finished crown on Thorin’s head too quickly for any objections. Giddy as he felt, he managed not to grab at Thorin’s hair, but ran his fingers gently through the inky strands, separating them out for braiding. 

“With this ceremony the Brave Soldier and the Princess join their love,” said Bilbo, fumbling Thorin’s hair into an approximate plait. That was what usually happened at the end of stories, after all. Thorin had lovely hair, and so much of it that it was easy to get tangled, but the braid worked well enough, and a spare stalk of campion was enough to secure it. 

He knelt down beside Thorin, who was still red-faced, but smiling now. It rather suited him, and Bilbo smiled back, pleased with his work.

That was the moment when Thorin lunged, kissing Bilbo on the mouth, just like grown-ups did.

“What are you doing?” asked Bilbo, rearing back in astonishment.

“Married,” said Thorin. It took Bilbo a moment to understand because he pronounced it “mah-red,” but yes, of course, married people kissed one another. 

It was perfectly in keeping with the game, once he thought about it, so he cautiously leaned forward to place his own kiss on Thorin’s mouth. Father and Mama sometimes did special married kissing, with open mouths and tongues, but Thorin didn’t seem to want that, which was a relief. Bilbo had always thought it looked rather disgusting.

Thorin seemed pleased, so Bilbo tried another, this time on Thorin’s cheek. The kiss was returned, and within a few moments Bilbo was discovering all sorts of places you could kiss a person’s face that had never occurred to him before. Kissing Thorin’s mouth felt quite different to his fuzzy, bearded cheeks, and different again to the soft velvet of his floppy ears. The tip of his nose was different from the hard nubs of his little horns, and the skin on his neck was soft, and smelled nice, like earth and warm bedsheets, a little damp still from the sweat of fighting. It was terribly interesting, and Thorin seemed to think so too. 

They peppered each other with kisses for a good while, only stopping when Bilbo’s tummy began to feel fluttery. It was growing more so by the moment, he realised, not quite as it usually felt when he was hungry, although he didn’t see what else it could be. Kissing must be harder work than it looked, he thought. No wonder Father and Mama usually went to bed after they’d been kissing a lot.

Luckily he knew Mama always packed a snack in the bottom of his backpack, so he grabbed Thorin’s hand again and dragged him to his feet. The poor thing looked rather dazed, so presumably he was hungry too. 

“Come on,” said Bilbo, and led the way back to where they had left their belongings.

The backpack and harp lay where they’d been abandoned, and Bilbo fell to his knees and pulled out his scarf and penknife and several handkerchiefs until at last, at the bottom, he found a bundle wrapped in a linen cloth and pulled it out. 

“Ooh,” he gasped. “Thorin. Sugar buns.”

Sugar buns were Bilbo’s favourite. His father made them with cinnamon and syrup and the crushed-up little black seeds that came in green pods and had some Haradish name he couldn’t pronounce, and then sprinkled them with great big chunks of white crystal sugar. One or two was a great treat, and here there were five. Bilbo decided not to think about that number too hard. 

“Here,” said Bilbo, holding one out to Thorin. “For you.”

Thorin took it gingerly, sniffing the bun as if it wasn’t to be trusted, then licked it, and his eyes went wide. He took a huge bite, chewing without even closing his mouth properly, and Bilbo laughed so hard several crumbs from of his own mouthful fell out.

“Good, aren’t they? Better than eating maps,” he said cheerfully, and handed Thorin another, watching with glee as the satyr sat with a bun in each hand, almost overwhelmed with his treat. When they reached the last one, Bilbo didn’t hesitate to hand it over. After all, who knew how often Thorin had even had sugar buns before?

When all had been eaten and fingers had been thoroughly licked, Thorin peered over at the bag again with a hopefully expression, his little tail wagging.

“Nope,” said Bilbo cheerfully. “That’s all there is.” 

Although it wasn’t, quite. Thorin had a large sugar-crystal stuck in his beard, and Bilbo swooped in quickly, snatching it under the guise of a kiss. He stuck out his tongue with the sugar-crystal on it for a second before crunching it, and Thorin, who had looked rather pleasantly surprised by the kiss, made a grumbling sound. He pushed at Bilbo’s shoulder, landing him flat on his back again, but the mossy ground was soft and it didn’t hurt.

Bilbo lay back sniggering happily, looking over at Thorin, and thinking what a rather marvellous day it had been after all. As he watched, Thorin picked up the little wooden harp, and glanced back at him.

“Song?” asked Thorin softly.

Bilbo beamed with delight, and something else, a sort of feeling like the one when he woke up very early in the morning and watched the sunrise from his window. “That would be very kind,” he said politely. “Yes please.”

He watched as Thorin began to play, plucking the strings with quick, clever fingers, and looking so pretty with flowers in his long black hair. It was a lovely tune, and Bilbo didn’t know it at all. He closed his eyes, listening intently, and let the sound wash over him.

\--

Bilbo woke to a large, gentle hand shaking his shoulder, and a faint chill in the air. The music had stopped and instead there was a nightingale singing somewhere nearby. 

He yawned, sat up, and saw to his horror that evening was falling. “Oh gosh,” said Bilbo in amazement. “How long did I sleep?”

Thorin shook his head, as if he didn’t know. He seemed somewhat anxious at Bilbo’s alarm.

“Thanks for waking me up,” said Bilbo, laying a hand on Thorin’s arm instinctively, “but I have to go home now. I’ll be in proper trouble if I’m not back before dark. Will you be here tomorrow if I come back?”

Thorin nodded vigorously, and for a moment Bilbo nodded with him like a fool, charmed by the sight. He caught himself and blushed, turning to stuff his things back into his backpack and hoist it onto his shoulders as quickly as he could. 

“Goodbye Thorin,” he called, setting off at a run. “See you tomorrow! We’ll do pirates, okay?”

It wasn’t as dark as all that yet, probably not even quite teatime, hoped Bilbo, as he crashed noisily through the bracken. He cut East away from The Water, running as fast as he could, and it wasn’t more than 20 minutes before he could see Bagshot Row, and the door of Bag End wide open with his mother standing on the step.

“Bilbo! Where in the Shire have you been!” she scolded, wrapping her arms around him in a ferocious hug. “The other faunts were all home hours ago, I had to send your father out to look for you! Great heavens above us, the state of your clothes!”

“You said to stay out ‘till dark and get muddy,” said Bilbo defiantly, once he could get enough breath to speak. Mama tutted at him, but it looked as though she would rather laugh.

“And what is this?” she asked, detaching something from his head that pulled at his hair and hurt and definitely wasn’t his paper helmet. She held it out between finger and thumb, eyebrows raised. It was a limp, lopsided flower crown of buttercups and dandelions, falling apart even as Bilbo looked at it.

“Wait!” he cried, as Mama made as if to throw it into the garden. “I want to keep it, please. Can we press it, Mama, and keep it?”

“This?” asked Mama, and pulled a face. “Of course. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” said Bilbo happily, dropping his pack and heading into the kitchen. There on the table was a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bowl of apples, with a jar of pickle beside them and a glass dish of pale creamy butter. It was exactly what he needed, and he tucked in gladly as Mama fetched down the largest flower-press from the top of a cupboard and began the task of unscrewing it at the corners.

“Where did you go, then, my honeybee?” she asked, watching him closely as she worked.

“I played in the woods, with Thorin. He’s tall, and he can play the harp, and he likes sugar buns.”

“Is that so?” said Mama. “Well, that’s good, I suppose. Well done for sharing your buns.”

“I did really good sharing,” said Bilbo cheerfully, slathering his bread with pickle. “I let him have three.”

“You must have liked him a lot,” said Mama, pausing as she lifted the flower-press lid and set it down on the windowsill. She put a fresh linen cloth inside and delicately laid the flower crown that Thorin must have made upon it. “Do I know him?”

“I don’t think so. He’s very nice though,” said Bilbo, swallowing rapidly so he could tell her more. “He doesn’t talk much, and he was a princess for my game, and it was fun, and then he helped me defeat the wizard, although really it was just some bushes, and then I showed him how to make crowns, and he played me a nice song, and I fell asleep, but he woke me up because I had to go home before dark. I’m going to go and see him tomorrow too, once my chores are done. I’m going to show him how to play pirates. He’s my new friend.”

“A new friend,” said Mama, almost whispering it. She reached down to tidy a petal, and she was smiling. “Oh Bilbo, I’m so glad.”


	2. Warm Feelings in Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which knitwear and Belladonna are introduced to our story. (unbeta'd, ficlet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus extra with Belladonna, since the marvellous puddeneen decided to be a dirty furry enabler and prompt me. "how about bb hobbits and satyrs in winter-time?" 
> 
> OH, TWIST MY ARM WHY DON'T YOU.
> 
> [ETA] [THERE'S MORE ART TOO, OH GOSH, LOOK LOOK!!!](http://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com/post/139932161988/rutobuka2-just-f-me-up-with-ahiddenkittys)

Frost lay over the grass and in the woods, the ground was carpeted in rime-edged brown leaves that crunched underfoot. It was cold enough for blowing dragon-smoke, and Bilbo huffed long white plumes into the air as he waited for Thorin. His Mama had wrapped his muffler once around his neck and then cross-wise over his chest to keep him good and toasty, and underneath it he had a jumper, a shirt, and a knitted vest, with warm woollen trousers lined in flannel and thick coat to cover it all. Overall he was rather more ball-shaped than usual, but comfortable enough, so he wasn’t about to mind that. 

When Thorin appeared through the trees, however, he was dressed exactly as he had been in the height of Summer. Which was to say in nothing but his own fur. 

“Goodness, Thorin,” said Bilbo. “Haven’t you got a jumper? Aren’t you cold?” Thorin scoffed at him, but there was no denying he did look chilled. There were goosebumps along his bare arms and his handsome nose was distinctly pinker than usual.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked in return, pointing at Bilbo’s bare feet. Bilbo looked down thoughtfully. His toes were a little prickly, it was true, but that hardly made it boots weather. Meanwhile Thorin’s bare chest wasn’t even half as well furred as Bilbo’s feet, and much bigger besides. When Bilbo reached up on tiptoes to kiss Thorin’s cheek as usual, his skin was freezing in spite of the wispy, baby beard hairs that clustered there. 

No, there was nothing for it. 

Bilbo pulled off his muffler and wrapped it around Thorin’s neck without waiting for permission. There, that was a start.

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing Thorin’s icy hand. A muffler on its own would never be sufficient, and it wasn’t as if any of Bilbo’s other things would fit Thorin. He knew there was a cupboard at home where his cousin Aldagrim’s old clothes were stored, waiting for Bilbo to grow into them. Surely something of those would fit.

\--

“Home already, darling?” called Mama from the kitchen. Thorin startled at the sound of her voice, looking panicked, and then again at the sound of his own hooves clicking on the tiled floor of Bag End’s hallway. It was deliciously warm inside the house, the fires all lit and a smell of baking biscuits wafting through the corridors.

“Sort of,” Bilbo called back, leading Thorin to his room. He opened the chest at the bottom of his bed and dug in under the quilts and blankets. There they were, a neatly-folded pile of ascots and braces and jumpers and smart shirts familiar from family gatherings in the past. Bilbo pulled them out, dusting off crumbs of dried lavender, and started holding them up against Thorin.

“What do you mean? Bilbo, what are you doing in there?”

“Getting a jumper for Thorin.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Mama. “The famous Thorin! How lovely to meet...” and there her voice trailed off as she put her head around Bilbo’s bedroom door.

Thorin had backed himself up against the wall and was eyeing the window with clear longing, his ears pulled back and his eyes wide. Mama’s face had gone pale.

It had been so long since he had thought of Thorin as anything other than simply Thorin that it took a moment for Bilbo to realise that he had never told his parents that Thorin was not a hobbit. Definitely not a hobbit. Well, it was too late now.

“Mama, this is Thorin, he is a satyr,” said Bilbo politely, the way he had seen his parents introduce people at parties. “Thorin, this is my Mama, she likes crochet.”

“Hello, Thorin,” said Mama weakly. “How lovely to meet you.”

Thorin peeled himself off the wall in order to bow in return, and mumbled something that might have been a greeting. When he raised his head he met Mama’s gaze with a glare, but Bilbo could see how low his tail was tucked, and that meant he was scared. He wouldn’t have been the first to be scared of Bilbo’s Mama, to be fair. Sometime Bilbo found her quite alarming himself.

Mama had stopped boggling now and was smoothing her hands down her apron thoughtfully. After a moment she seemed to make up her mind about something, nodding to herself. 

“Well, we can’t let him have any of those,” she said briskly, gesturing at the clothes now spread out across Bilbo’s floor. “He’ll pull them out of shape entirely. I think we should go and see if your father has anything spare, don’t you?”

She walked towards the Master bedroom, Bilbo and Thorin following in her wake. If Thorin did not seem keen to go any further into the smial, it was no matter, since Bilbo had a firm grasp of his hand again and was not about to let go. Mama always knew best, and it was wise to do as she said.

At the bottom of his parents’ enormous wardrobe, Mama had pulled open a drawer and was rifling through it, muttering under her breath. At last she plucked out a large knitted jumper in a shade of dark greenish-blue. “There!” she said triumphantly. “I made this while I was expecting you, Bilbo, and I had the most dreadful baby-brain. The neck came out rather wide and I miscounted the rows so it’s too short in the body as well, but I should think it’ll look perfectly darling on you, Thorin dear. How lucky I never found time to unravel it!”

It took some work to persuade Thorin to try it on, but Mama was right, it did rather suit him, though the sleeves were a touch too long and needed turning up. It came up high at the neck in a thick roll, with a criss-cross motif of cabled stitches along the top of the sleeves. Thorin was clearly intrigued by it, and ran his hands wonderingly along the raised patterns, tracing them with his fingers.

“That should keep you snug enough,” said Mama, looking pleased with herself. “Now, since you’re both here and being pests already, why don’t we have a mug of cocoa?”

They sat around the kitchen table and slowly but surely, after half a mug of cocoa and several shortbread biscuits, Thorin began to smile. Mama asked him lots of questions in her cheerful, friendly sort of way and in a short time Bilbo knew more about his friend than he had discovered in many months. For instance, it had never occurred to him that Thorin might have a brother and sister, or that his family had come from the East, or any number of fascinating things. Mama seemed interested too, and Bilbo felt a quiet swell of pride at that. She could be quite fussy about people, he knew, but she and Thorin were getting along so terribly well that no-one heard the front door latch as it clicked. The first they knew of Bungo’s return was his voice echoing up the hallway. 

“I’m back, Bella!” he called, and Mama jumped to her feet.

She seemed anxious again, and at once began shooing the two of them through the dining room towards the back door. “I just need to have a word with your father, Bilbo, so why don’t you go up the hill and play with your friend while I do.”

“Husband,” growled Thorin, stopping in the middle of the west hall.

“Excuse me?” Mama looked rather startled by his sudden grim look, and Bilbo hurried to explain. He had long since discovered that in Thorin’s mind, their game of make-believe that first day had definitely ended just before they’d exchanged braids.

“He means me. We got married,” he blurted out. “Thorin and I.” He felt Thorin’s grip on his hand tighten, and couldn’t help but grin a bit. It was fun, being married, although it was another thing he probably ought to have mentioned to his parents.

“Married?” asked Mama, drawing herself up to her full height, which was only a little more than Thorin’s. “No, you didn’t. You did not get married, Bilbo Baggins, I won’t have it. That is going too far!”

“But...” began Bilbo, glancing down to where Thorin’s hoof had just begun to paw at the parquet.

“You are not married, and I shall tell you why,” said Mama fiercely, and then ruined the effect with a wink and a smile. She reached out to tousle Thorin’s curls, and he blinked most amusingly in utter astonishment. “No son of mine is getting married unless I’m invited. Now scoot, you two. We shall have to discuss the guest list later.”


	3. A Clash of Cultures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids, you can’t build a healthy relationship on a fundamental cultural misunderstanding. 
> 
> (ノﾟ∀ﾟ)ノ⌒･*:｡.･mild angst warning!･.｡:･*☆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: this chapter basically wouldn't exist without the excellent encouragement and beta-reading suggestions of [pangur-pangur](http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com/). Pangur, you are a star.
> 
> Please note, this continues to be utter self-indulgence on my part. There's not even the ghost of a plot, just a whole ridiculous fluffy pile of kidfic that may eventually turn into proper romance if it keeps going... WHO CAN SAY where it will end... 
> 
> (It'll be somewhere fluffy, you can bank on that much).
> 
> [ETA April 2016] MORRRREEE ARRRRRTTT look at how amazing this is, [Thorin and Bilbo practising their writing](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/141331664544/a-pic-for-ahiddenkitty-s-wonderful-faunts-and).

When the last of the snows had cleared and the snowdrops were peeking out of the ground, Amad announced to Thorin that they were going to Hobbiton. She had never shown the least interest in the world outside their caves before.

“Why?” asked Thorin cautiously, watching her braid beads into her tawny hair and beard. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to, but he couldn’t be sure that Amad approved of hobbits, even special ones like Bilbo. 

“To thank your Bilbo and his mother for the use of that jumper, and to see if they wanted it returned. It may only have been a loan, after all,” said Amad, slipping a few bangles onto her wrists. She looked very fine, and Thorin wondered if he should put in his own beads. There was no time, however, since Amad led him outside, sniffed the air and declared they should set off at once.

Hobbiton lay almost due South from their home, and though there were roads, it was quicker to simply take a direct route through the woods and over plowed fields. Little birds flew up singing, startled at their approach, and rabbits scampered out of their way. Thorin wondered if they should have brought their bows, so that they could take a few coneys to Bag End for lunch, but Amad galloped on ahead of him, swift and determined. He clutched the folded jumper to his chest and tried to keep up.

Once they reached Hobbiton she slowed, and Thorin was glad to catch his breath. The hobbits came out of their smials to stare, pointing at them and chattering as if he and Amad couldn’t hear them. He held his head high, as Amad did, and walked beside her unhurried. That was more of a struggle once they reached Bagshot row, however, and he saw the round green door at the top of the hill.

As they approached he could see Bilbo’s Mama outside on her knees digging in a flowerbed near the gate. When she glanced up, he waved, and she stood, blinking in astonishment, and dropped her little steel spade onto a pile of uprooted plants. The walk to Bag End had been a long one, and briefly Thorin wondered if she would mind him taking a small handful, just for a snack.

“Art thou Bella, bearer of Bilbo?” asked Amad, extending an elegant hand over the little gate. Thorin fought down a wince of shame. He knew his own Westron was not fluent, but even he could hear how wrong Amad’s sounded.

“Gracious, yes I am, I suppose,” said Bilbo’s Mama, looking flustered. She wiped her muddy hands on her apron distractedly and took Fris’s hand. “Hello, Thorin dear. You must be some relation, I take it?”

“I am the bearer of Thorin, named Fris,” said Amad, inclining her head in graceful acknowledgement.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Bilbo’s Mama, bobbing down half-way as if beginning to make a curtsey before thinking better of it. She glanced down the road to where the neighbours were all still standing beside their doors, goggling at the sight of satyrs in Hobbiton. Bilbo’s Mama sighed, and opened the gate, ushering them through it politely. “Perhaps you’d like to come in? I was just about to make a pot of tea.”

That seemed unlikely, since she had only been mid-way through the flowerbed when they arrived, but Bilbo’s Mama made very nice tea, and there were usually biscuits too. Thorin clattered merrily into the smial and bounced over to where Bilbo appeared in the doorway of Bag End’s parlour.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed, running forward. Then he stopped, staring up at Amad in alarm. She was quite alarming, Thorin could admit, and more so standing in Bilbo’s cosy little home. Her hooves rapped sharply on the tiled floor as she approached Bilbo, taking his chin in her hand to observe him. 

“Thou art Bilbo,” she said, and Bilbo stared right back at her, not squirming or struggling, clearly dismayed but unwilling to back down. He was so brave and wonderful Thorin felt his face getting hot at the sight of it. He hung back, scratching under one ear, waiting until Amad was satisfied and he could go and get his kiss.

Bilbo’s Mama emerged from the kitchen again, nonplussed at the scene before her. “Um,” she said, turning to Thorin with a slight frown and noticing the jumper in his arms. “Thorin, what have you got there?”

“The woollen garment given in loan to my son,” said Amad, letting go of Bilbo, who sagged slightly in relief. She bowed deeply to Bilbo’s Mama. “If it please you, I return it herewith and offer my gratitude for its use betimes.”

“Loan? Oh, my dear Fris, it was a gift really,” said Bilbo’s Mama, flapping her hands dismissively. 

Thorin saw Amad open her mouth as if about to argue, but just then the door to the smial banged open again. All present looked to see a red-faced older hobbit in the hallway, hands on his knees and clearly out of breath.

“Bella! Bilbo, are you two all right? Goody Cotton ran in babbling about monsters in our… oh.” He stopped, and gaped at Amad. “I say,” he gasped. “Are you Thorin?”

“I am Fris,” said Amad, and reached out her hand in greeting. As the hobbit stretched out his own as if to take it, he glanced down at her chest and went, if anything, even redder. He snatched his hand away as if Amad’s might burn him, and began to make spluttering noises. Thorin took the opportunity to sidle a little closer to Bilbo, wondering if it was kiss time yet. 

“Oh dear,” sighed Bilbo’s Mama, and hurried over to lay a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Bungo, Fris is Thorin’s mother, that’s Thorin over there. Fris, this is my husband, Bungo. Please do excuse him, he’s delicate sometimes.”

Bungo seemed to be approaching words again, staring imploringly at his wife and hissing things that sounded like “naked!” and “where to look?” in a strangled whisper.

The hobbits all wore clothes all the time, Thorin realised, and his mother’s bared chest was strange to them. He wondered if it was different for children, or if he should have kept the jumper on after all. Bilbo’s father looked terribly upset. When Thorin glanced over at Bilbo however, he appeared to be stifling giggles.

Bilbo’s Mama swung her brown woollen shawl from her shoulders and held it out to Amad with a smile almost as bright as her son’s. “May I offer you this? Only I think it might help, and I’d be terribly grateful for your assistance.” 

Amad blinked slowly several times, before sighing and wrapping herself in the woollen shawl. She looked even more strange now, and uncomfortable, as if she were wearing a costume.

“Oh, it suits you!” said Bilbo’s Mama, clapping her hands. “The colour, it matches your eyes wonderfully! Don’t you think, Bungo?”

Bungo nodded obediently, still standing half-behind his wife. “Yes, lovely,” he said in a wobbly voice. “Very nice.” 

“Isn’t this wonderful,” declared Bilbo’s Mama. She sounded as if announcing it could make it true. “Let’s just see about that tea, shall we? The children can join us later, perhaps, I’m sure they can entertain themselves for now.” 

She led Amad and Bilbo’s father through to the kitchen, with a backwards glance to Bilbo that seemed to convey very clearly that any child not able to entertain themselves would be risking significant wrath. Bilbo wrinkled his nose thoughtfully.

“I was drawing maps,” he said. “Do you want to draw maps with me?”

“Yes,” said Thorin, without the least idea what maps were.

“Good,” said Bilbo, leaning up to kiss Thorin’s cheek at last, and receive his own kiss in return.

Pleased, Thorin followed Bilbo to the parlour, where papers were strewn across the floor along with several books propped open at wonderfully complex illustrations. They made no sense to Thorin whatsoever, but he dropped down to lie on his stomach beside Bilbo readily enough and watched. With just the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, Bilbo dipped the end of a sharpened feather into the ink and carefully wrote Westron letters in the middle of some beautifully delicate design. It spread like the boughs of a tree or veins of mineral across the paper. On closer inspection it was a copy of one of the designs in the book nearest to him.

“What is it?” asked Thorin, unable to make out anything in the shape, although he liked it well enough.

“It’s the Westfold of Rohan! This is Edoras, and this is Helm’s Deep, and those are the White Mountains, and that’s the Entwash river,” said Bilbo, pointing as he explained.

“All of that?” asked Thorin. He looked at it carefully, concentrating. If the wiggly blue line was a river and the triangles were mountains, there must be leagues upon leagues caught in the square of parchment. It was a larger picture than he had ever imagined, but if anyone could understand so large a thing, it would be Bilbo.

Bilbo, who was suddenly pressing a feather and a pot of ink into his hands. “You try!” he said. “It’s fun.”

Thorin had never used such things before. He could write, with charcoal on stone or sticks in earth, and he could carve stone, but ink and paper were unknown to him. It seemed a strange custom, neither temporary nor permanent, and moreover far too fiddly. He dipped the feather dubiously into the ink, but the scratchy nib was unwilling to run smoothly in his grip and all he could manage was a blotted scrawl. He wasn’t quite sure how to make the patterns Bilbo had in any case.

“Not like that,” said Bilbo, leaning over. He took Thorin’s hand in his own softer, smaller one and adjusted his hold on the quill. Thorin tried again. He had an idea, and wrote his name carefully on the parchment. It looked smart enough, although the “O” was a little wobbly. 

“That’s a nice pattern,” said Bilbo, and then he peered closer. “Is it… is it writing?” he asked.

Thorin nodded. “Thorin,” he said, pointing, and Bilbo’s eyes went as round as the moon. 

“Oh,” he said, enraptured. “Is that satyr writing? Can you write my name?”

Thoring pondered. The language of satyrs was not supposed to be shared, but it hardly seemed fair that his husband couldn’t write his own name, so Thorin wrote it out, as clearly and carefully as he could. Bilbo watched, fascinated, hanging over Thorin’s shoulder.

“Is that really right?” he asked. “It looks as if it says _rit-ree_ or something. Does it say Bilbo Baggins?”

“Just Bilbo,” said Thorin, pointing out each letter in turn. 

“Can you write Westron? Shall I show you?” asked Bilbo, and was doing it already before Thorin could even nod. “Look, this is Bilbo Baggins, and here’s Thorin. Do you have another name?”

Thorin shook his head, and took up the quill again to copy Bilbo’s letters as Bilbo did the same with Thorin’s Cirth. The rounded shapes were difficult, and before long Thorin found himself quite absorbed in his task. Even Bilbo was silent, the only sound between the two of them the scratching of nibs on parchment and an occasional sniff of frustration or pride.

It was hardly surprising that the grown-ups managed to creep up on them. Thorin didn’t even realise until he noticed Amad’s scent above the carbon smell of the ink and glanced up.

“Their play fares well,” she murmured from the doorway. Bilbo’s Mama stood beside her, holding a steaming mug of tea. Amad sounded softer than usual, thought Thorin, and got back on with the problem of “B”.

“Doesn’t it,” sighed Bilbo’s Mama. “Do you know they’ve decided they’re married? Adorable.”

Thorin froze. It wasn’t that he was keeping secrets, only he hadn’t quite decided how to tell Amad about that yet. Bilbo’s Mama was different, she could hardly stop them, but Amad, Thorin knew, was not to be trifled with.

“Married,” repeated Amad grimly, and in an instant her whole demeanour had changed. She was as stern and upright now as he had ever seen her, the tips of her horns seeming to almost touch the rounded ceiling. “Thorin?”

“Yes, Amad,” he said, scrambling to stand before her. He was in trouble, he knew it.

“Is this true?”

He wanted to say that it had been Bilbo’s idea, but that seemed a betrayal. He nodded, instead, staring down at his hooves to avoid looking Amad in the eye.

“Thorin,” she said, and it wasn’t fair, the amount of disappointment she could convey in just the sound of his name. “You would not break your mother’s heart so. So rash, to wed so young, to one not even of our own!”

“Now excuse me, Mrs Fris,” said Bilbo’s father, the one called Bungo. “You’re not serious, surely? Why, it’s only a game!”

“A game?” asked Amad. “Think you this is some sport?”

“Fris, they’re children,” Bilbo’s Mama was saying, handing her tea to her husband and patting Amad’s arm in a placating gesture that Thorin knew wouldn’t work. “It’s just pretend. They aren’t really married. Children can’t even get married!”

“I wedded Thrain ‘ere I could speak my name aloud,” said Amad, stepping back. Her ears lay flattened against her head and her eyes shone with fury. “Our vows are binding, whensoever we take them. Are Hobbits so false?”

“Now that is hardly fair,” said Bilbo’s father. He had set down the tea and placed himself in front of Bilbo’s Mama as if to protect her from Amad’s anger. He didn’t look in the least nervous any more, and his frown was remarkably severe. “We don’t hold our children to promises they made when they were too young to understand them, certainly.”

“My son would understand the deed right well,” she said grimly.

“Well I can assure you, Bilbo would not.” Bungo shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back as if dismissing all possibility of argument. “I’m very sorry if there’s been some mistake here, but he’s not even in his tweens. He will not have meant to enter into any sort of legally binding agreement, of course he wouldn’t.”

Amad hesitated, her ears flicking back and forth in suspicion. “Seek you to cozen me? And yet I do begin to believe ‘tis true. What says Bilbo?”

Bilbo. Thorin turned to look at him as everyone else did, and saw the panic cross his face. Bilbo’s Mama swept forward, bending down before him and stroking his hair. Thorin would have liked to be the one doing that, but he didn’t dare, not yet.

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

“I’m sorry...” whispered Bilbo, and his Mama shook her head.

“Bilbo, my love, I know you didn’t mean any harm. Just tell us the truth,” said Bilbo’s Mama. Thorin felt as if he might be falling, as if he had swallowed a large stone that would drop him down into a deep crevasse.

“I thought it was pretend,” said Bilbo wretchedly, looking at Thorin from under his curly hair. “I didn’t mean it, not then. I’m sorry.”

It didn’t hurt any less for having seen it coming. Thorin’s vision blurred with tears almost at once, and he blinked them back fiercely. 

It wasn’t real. When Bilbo had woven him a crown of flowers and put a braid into his hair, he had not meant it. They were not married, nor ever had been. Bilbo and all his family considered it make-believe, impossible. Did they imagine Thorin was a fool, then? From the corner of his eye he saw Bilbo reaching out towards him and it was too much to bear. 

“Thorin,” said Amad, and Thorin ran forward into her arms, so hard he almost butted her. He would not cry, he promised himself, rubbing his face in Amad’s soft beard and squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn’t speak, or dare to look at anyone, but at least he would not cry.

Amad patted his head gently. “Well met, Belladonna Baggins and Bungo Baggins,” she said sadly, as if she might even mean it, a little. “Best now that we should take our leave, methinks."

“Oh, dear, I’m so very sorry about all this, Fris. It really was nice to meet you,” said Bilbo’s Mama. “I think perhaps you’re right. Let me wrap up some shortbread for you to take home.”

Thorin thought he heard Bilbo protesting, but he couldn’t let himself listen. It was all he could do not to run from the smial at once, but Durin’s folk did not flee, he knew that. Instead he followed Amad to the snug little kitchen, digging his nails into his palms as the shortbread was bundled into a linen cloth. Bilbo and his father remained in the parlour, and Thorin walked out of Bag End beside Amad, chin high, without a backward glance. 

\--

On their way home, as the sun began to drop in the sky, Amad found a thick patch of star-like ramsoms in the wood and between them they picked a good bushel to take back for supper. The distraction was welcome, though Thorin knew Amad was watching him with care. Even better, their harvest staved off some of the questions from Frerin and Dwalin about where Thorin had been all day.

“Let him be,” said Amad, shooing them off, and dividing the washed leaves into bowls for the table. She held one out to Thorin. “Would you rather eat in your room?”

“Yes,” said Thorin gratefully, and went to take it. Before he could, she spoke again.

“You are just like your father and his grandfather before him,” said Amad. Sometimes that was grand praise, but Thorin had a feeling it wasn’t this time. “Honourable and responsible as stone, and then suddenly, some crazed idea seizes you and before it can be stopped, the pebble sets off an avalanche. Heaven save me from the Line of Durin. But a hobbit, Thorin! What made you think you could marry a hobbit?”

Because he is Bilbo, thought Thorin woefully. He decided against saying it aloud, and at length his mother sighed and let him go. 

Down a narrow corridor, in the corner of Bindbale caves that was his own, Thorin flung himself down upon the dried grass of his nest and gazed up at the stone shelf above it. Once it had held the flower crown Bilbo made for him on their wedding day, as he’d thought, but Thorin had not known how to preserve it. Eventually it had become withered and dry, and then mouldy, and now all that was left was a little pile of foul-smelling mush that he had refused to let anyone clean up.

Perhaps it did not matter, since they were not married after all. Since it had all been only a game. Thorin kicked idly at the dry grass. He remembered Bilbo’s face when he answered his Mama, how upset and ashamed he had looked. Thorin did not like Bilbo to be sad.

It was simple, once he considered it properly. When they had been married, pretend or no, Bilbo had been happy, but now that they were not, he was sad. 

It would not be easy, of course, he thought, taking a mouthful of his dinner, so deep in thought he barely tasted it. He knew their parents did not approve and believed them both too young besides, but Thorin had never shied away from a difficult task in his life. He must wait patiently and court Bilbo Baggins properly. 

And then they could be truly married, and all would be well again.


	4. The Caves in the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which friendship is better than nothing... for now. :3
> 
> for [rutobuka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka), with the utterly invaluable assistance of the wonderful [pangur-pangur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pangur_pangur).
> 
> \--
> 
> [ETA April 2016] Holy crap look, ruto drew some more art. [Guilty Bilbo and Jealous Thorin](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/141525393419/screams-about-kittys-fic-some-more-go)!!

Usually, Bilbo and Thorin would play together every few days or so, and make arrangements to meet again before they went their separate ways home. That hadn’t happened last time they saw each other. Thorin didn’t even know if Bilbo ever wanted to see him again.

He couldn’t spend all of every day waiting in the little glade where they had first met, but he made sure to be there whenever he could. He would bring his harp and practice, or his bow, to catch rabbits. Every rustle of leaves and bird’s call made him look up, hoping to see Bilbo, but a week passed and there had been no sign.

On the eighth day, his chores had been neglected long enough, and so he spent his morning dutifully fetching water for Amad, cleaning and polishing his carving tools, and at lessons with Balin, learning the sagas of their history. Time seemed to pass very slowly.

Balin, he realised belatedly, was regarding him in amused silence, and Thorin blinked with surprise. He hadn’t noticed the last song finishing, and he certainly hadn’t been listening to the words properly. He ducked his head, ashamed to have been caught daydreaming, as Balin chuckled. 

“Why don’t you go practice that one in the woods while it’s still such a fine day,” suggested his teacher. “I’ll have another listen this evening and see how you’ve done.”

Thorin nodded, uncomfortable with Balin’s indulgently knowing tone. It was true, though, he couldn’t concentrate, and perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to just go and see. He trotted up out of the caves towards the woods. It would be too bad if today was the day Bilbo finally appeared, but had given up waiting and Thorin missed him. 

The woods in Spring were vibrantly alive, filled with birdsong, and every tree was bursting out in delicious, tender green shoots. Thorin paid not the slightest attention to any of it. He broke into a run, leaping over dead trees and ducking under low branches, slipping through the trees until he saw a flash of brighter colour up ahead and slowed.

There was someone waiting, sitting on a rock and scratching dolefully in the mud before it with a stick. They wore short trousers over bare, hairless legs, and a yellow shirt with red suspenders, and beside the rock rested a fat brown leather backpack. The sunlight caught golden threads in the figure’s reddish-brown curls, on their head and atop their large, swinging feet, with five round little toes on each.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin.

“Oh!” yelped Bilbo, jumping up from the rock at once in clear delight and throwing his stick aside, “Oh, but I can go if you want me to. I just, I hoped, I wanted...”

Thorin shook his head hard enough to make his ears flap. “Stay,” he said, and that was all he managed to add to the conversation for a while. 

Bilbo wrung his hands and paced and threw his arms above his head as he explained himself at length. It seemed he had been practicing the speech in his head as he waited.

“It was my fault, I know it was, and I’m so sorry I got you into such trouble, and I hope it wasn’t too much trouble, but I thought it might be, so I didn’t think you would want to still be friends, or I was afraid of that, and I told Mama, and Mama said I should come and find you because I was a Baggins, and Bagginses are brave, and Father said that was a lot of Tookish nonsense, and Mama told him not to be an old coot and said I couldn’t just stay home and mope, I had to come and ask you, and Father said he wasn’t sure you were a good influence, and Mama threw a dishcloth at his head, and then yesterday Father made sugar buns and told me they were for us, for you and me, and that Mama was right and I ought to be brave, so I’ve got them in the backpack if you want one, I mean even if you want me to go away, if you don’t want to be friends. Do you? I’m so sorry, Thorin. I really am.” 

“I am sorry too,” said Thorin, as Bilbo paused for breath.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, looking confused. “Why are you sorry?”

Thorin shrugged. It was hard to put into words. His Westron was much better now, after months in Bilbo’s company, but he wasn’t sure how to explain himself in this. How foolish he felt for having assumed Bilbo would have consented to marry him so soon, or how deeply it hurt that his foolishness had made Bilbo sad. 

Bilbo rubbed his ear in the silence. “There’s shortbread as well, lots of it, for you to take to your Amad.”

The backpack that lay against the rock did look fairly stuffed, and the smell of sugar and butter was strong even from where Thorin stood. The shortbread they had brought from Bilbo’s house a week before had barely lasted an hour, and Thorin had no doubt that more would be well received.

“I am glad you came back,” he said, daring to take a step forward, and was rewarded with a small, brief smile from Bilbo. Encouraged, he came closer and looked to see what Bilbo had been drawing with his stick while he waited. In the dirt, awkwardly scratched, were their two names repeated several times in Cirth, and Westron, so far as Thorin could remember. He had not been able to keep any of the parchment they had practised on, but the shapes were familiar enough. 

In some places Bilbo had also drawn a strange symbol, a triangle with two rounded bumps on one side where a straight line should have been.

“What is that?” asked Thorin, pointing.

“It’s, oh, it’s writing practice. I was just writing names,” said Bilbo, still sounding anxious and flustered. “To pass the time.”

Thorin pointed again, more clearly, at the strange shape. “But what is that?”

“It’s just a symbol,” said Bilbo, more agitated now, and stepped on the nearest one with his broad foot, erasing it. “Do you want one of these buns? I didn’t eat any, there’s two each in there.”

“A symbol of what?” asked Thorin. Bilbo seemed to be avoiding the question and Thorin could not quell a creeping feeling of anxiety himself.

Digging his toes deeper into the mud, Bilbo sighed. “Friendship, I suppose? It’s a heart. Or it’s the symbol for a heart.”

It did not look like any heart Thorin had ever seen, but he let it go. It wasn’t an arrow or a spear head, and besides, friendship was a good meaning, especially with both their names attached. Amongst satyrs, the heart was the seat of love, but perhaps this was another thing that was different for Hobbits. He looked at their names, written together, and their two distinctly mismatched footprints in the mud. 

When Thorin didn’t reply with more questions, Bilbo looked up at him cautiously and smiled with a little more confidence than before. There was a moment, Thorin could tell, when both of them knew there ought to have been a kiss.

“I’m sorry we weren’t really married,” said Bilbo. “We can still be friends. Best friends.”

“Dwalin is my best friend,” said Thorin reflexively. It was true. He had known Dwalin his whole life, after all.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, looking crestfallen again, and Thorin could have kicked himself. What kind of bumbling suitor was he, to make his beloved upset so easily?

“You should meet him,” he said, hoping that might help.

Bilbo was clearly taken aback by the suggestion. “Am I allowed?” he asked, and Thorin nodded with more confidence than he felt. He had never known anyone who was not a satyr to come to their caves, it was true, but then to his knowledge it had never been specifically forbidden either. If they were to be married it seemed only right for Bilbo to be introduced to Thorin’s friends and family. Thorin was determined: this courtship would be done properly, with no allowance for argument or misunderstanding.

Thorin reached decisively across to the backpack, swinging its weight onto his own shoulders, and beckoned Bilbo to follow. It seemed the Spring sunshine had never been so bright, nor had the birds sung so prettily, as Thorin showed Bilbo the way to his home.

\--

They were not far from the caves when Dwalin found them. When Thorin had left, Dwalin had been at wrestling practice, and he had not washed since.

“Thorin!” he called loudly, crashing through the undergrowth towards them. “What have you got? Is it more treats?”

He bounded out in front of them and stood blocking their way, sniffing loudly, large and scarred and reeking of sweat. Beside him Thorin felt Bilbo stiffen as if shocked. 

“Hello,” said Bilbo, and Dwalin fixed him with a fierce eye. 

“You’re him,” he said, not bothering to use Westron. “The wee thing that got Thorin into such bother with Lady Fris.”

“Dwalin,” said Thorin reproachfully. Dwalin gave him a look of deep contempt and snorted.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service,” he said in Westron, his accent carelessly thick, and bowed low, horns almost brushing the dirt before him. There was more than a trace of insolence in the depth of the bow, although Thorin hoped Bilbo would not know that. 

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours. Gosh, you’ve got a whole beard already. Are those tattoos?” asked Bilbo, all eagerness. He sounded awed, and Thorin was not especially pleased by it. If Bilbo wished to look at anyone with eyes so wide and admiring, it should be Thorin himself.

Dwalin frowned in surprise, not entirely sure of what Bilbo had said, but evidently able to understand that it was praise. The ungrateful cur did not deserve such flattery, thought Thorin irritably, especially if he could not appreciate it.

“Dwalin!” called another familiar voice, and Balin emerged through the trees, red in the face and out of breath, clutching two viols under one arm. “Must you run off like that as soon as you smell sweetmeats? We have barely begun your lesson!” 

“A white one!” breathed Bilbo in delight, and Balin raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Hello there, little one,” he said. Balin’s Westron was fluent, at least, more so even than Thorin’s. Balin was the one who took care of most of the satyrs’ rare dealings with the outside world. “I presume you are Master Baggins, am I right? What brings you so far from Hobbiton?”

“Your horns, they flick out at the ends just like your beard!” said Bilbo in delight, ignoring the question entirely. “That’s so clever, how did you make them do that?”

Balin stroked his beard in surprise. “Thank you, Master Baggins. In truth, I did nothing, they simply grow that way.”

“It’s marvellous! And your beard looks like clouds. May I touch it? Is it soft?” asked Bilbo, and Thorin suppressed a growl of jealousy. 

“If you wish.” Balin looked more nonplussed than Thorin had ever seen him. “I must ask again, however. Why has Thorin brought you here?”

“He is my guest,” said Thorin hastily. “He is coming to see my rooms.” Bilbo glanced over in surprise, but said nothing. Plans could change, thought Thorin. The sons of Fundin had been introduced, as promised, and now Thorin found he would like his hobbit to himself again.

“To our caves?” asked Balin in surprise. “Thorin, that may not be wise. You should not seek to anger your Amad again so soon.”

“We’ve brought shortbread for her,” said Bilbo, and Thorin nodded, swinging down the backpack. Bilbo rummaged through it and pulled out an enormous white muslin bag, darkened in patches with grease-spots of butter, and heavy with the smell of sugar. Dwalin licked his lips greedily at the sight, and even Balin’s eyes gleamed with sudden hunger. Thinking quickly, Thorin held it out to the older satyr.

“You give it to Amad,” he said. “So she will not know Bilbo came.”

Balin sniffed, and took the bag from Thorin’s hands, though he looked more amused than anything else. “Very well then. Speak of it to no-one, though. Your Amad would never forgive me if she knew I had let a halfling into our home.”

“Halfling?” squeaked Bilbo, but Thorin was dragging him away already, eager to escape before Balin changed his mind. 

The nearest mouth of their caves lay concealed behind an overhang of ivy and a long-dead, ancient oak tree. To a satyr’s eye the entry was clear enough, but Bilbo squeaked in surprise when Thorin drew the curtain aside to reveal the passage behind it.

It led no more than ten cubits down at a gentle incline before widening out into a natural courtyard, protected on all sides by tall, jagged rock and inaccessible by any other means. Out of this place led all the tunnels and passageways of Thorin’s clan, from the smallest bedrooms to grand halls under the stone. There was no-one within sight or scent, but Thorin clung cautiously to the walls nonetheless, sneaking along as if they were burglars until they reached the crevice that led to his rooms and could move swiftly again.

“Will I meet your brother and sister?” asked Bilbo excitedly.

“No,” said Thorin, not breaking stride. “Dis is too young to keep secrets, and Frerin… Frerin chooses not to. This is my room.”

Bilbo bumped straight into him as he spoke, and Thorin had to turn and catch him before he fell. When Bilbo had straightened back up his eyes were wide, blinking owlishly and turning his head this way and that without really looking at anything.

“It’s so dark down here,” said Bilbo, still clutching at Thorin’s arms. “Is this really where you live?”

“Yes,” said Thorin. It wasn’t so very dark, not really. They were no more than 20 cubits deep now, and the light from the courtyard was barely a furlong away. “This is where I sleep, and here, these are my carving tools, and here I keep my harp and spare strings, look.”

“Wait, I can’t see a thing,” said Bilbo, stumbling after him, clutching at his hand as Thorin tried to lead him about. “Wait!” 

Thorin scowled as Bilbo began to giggle. He had not considered that hobbits eyes were not so keen as satyrs’, and he did not like to be thwarted. He stamped a hoof in irritation.

Bilbo reached up to pat his shoulder reassuringly. “Thorin, when it’s dark in my bedroom, if I keep my eyes open I can see more after a bit. Give me a moment.”

Thorin considered. “We can sit here,” he suggested, and drew Bilbo carefully over to the nest where he slept, pushing him gently down to land with a soft thump on the dried grass.

“What’s this?” asked Bilbo, running his free hand over it curiously. His other hand still gripped Thorin’s tightly.

“It is where I sleep,” said Thorin, and saw Bilbo’s hand stop moving, and the way his nose twitched and his mouth formed a wordless “O”, then faded to a secretive smile. A small surge of excitement moved through Thorin at the realisation that Bilbo could not see him.

Bilbo kept blinking, looking around Thorin’s room and squinting, making the sweetest faces of frustration as he peered about. Thorin was not sure he had ever seen a sight he liked so well, and sat back, watching happily. At last Bilbo frowned over at him again.

“Why are you staring at me?” asked Bilbo.

Abruptly Thorin realised that Bilbo’s huge, dark pupils seemed much more focussed than before. “I thought you could not see,” he said gruffly.

“I can now, a bit,” said Bilbo. He turned around, running his hands over the wall behind him. “These carvings are your writing, aren’t they. Did you make them? What do they say?”

“They are my history,” said Thorin proudly. “Here I shot my first hare, and here I first beat Dwalin at wrestling. If I become famous, these will be the deeds of my song.”

“This one is crossed out,” said Bilbo, stroking his hand over the ragged stone scar a few lines from the bottom. 

“That is… that is when we met,” said Thorin. “Only the part that said we married. The rest I left in place. It is still worthy of my song.”

Bilbo’s hand rested against the stone for a long moment, and Thorin felt the atmosphere between them slipping into melancholy again. It was not as if Thorin could not have let the record remain, mistaken and misunderstood. Yet he did not dare reassure Bilbo that it was only a temporary change, that they would be married again some day. For now, if Bilbo wished them to be no more than friends, Thorin could hold to that. He tapped a hoof against the floor, thinking hard.

“May I show you something? It will be darker there.”

“What sort of thing?”

“A secret,” said Thorin. “One I have not shown to any other, not even Dwalin.”

Bilbo’s face lit up, his smile so bright it seemed like daybreak under the stone. Thorin pulled him to his feet. There was a cranny at the back of his cave, but he could not be certain the hobbit’s eyes would see it, so he would have to lead the way, just to be sure. It was not too much of a squeeze, but once through it, there was a walk of perhaps 50 cubits or so with no light at all. Bilbo huffed and muttered as they walked, moving slowly, and then squeaking in pain as he stubbed his toe.

Thorin paused, unsure of his plan. “Should we go back?” he asked.

“No no, I’m fine. Only terrified,” whispered Bilbo cheerfully, and Thorin halted, confused. “Well, go on! I want to see the secret!”

In the darkness, Thorin grinned to himself, marvelling at his Hobbit, this creature who could admit his fear without shame and would follow Thorin anyway. It felt as if a shining, smooth gem bubbled into form in his chest, the sweetest burden of trust he could imagine.

Blue-green light shone dimly from around the next corner. He led Bilbo forward to where the stone began to open up around them, into a small cave illuminated with hundreds upon hundreds of glow-worms, each hanging from a little sparkling thread.

In the pale, cold glow Bilbo’s dark eyes reflected the light like stars. He said nothing, only stared, open-mouthed in wonder. 

“We must be quiet,” Thorin whispered. “They do not like noise. That is why I have never brought Dwalin here.” 

“They’re like stars,” whispered Bilbo, enchanted, and Thorin felt his heart leap in gladness. Of course Bilbo would understand.

“When I was very young, before I was grown enough to go out of the caves, my Amad nursed me in a cave like this, with _danak’urm_ on its roof. I believed they were stars,” said Thorin, still whispering. “When I saw the real thing, I felt sad, because they seemed so far away.”

“Don’t be sad,” said Bilbo, grasping his hand again. “Don’t ever be sad.”

Thorin smiled, pressing his shoulder up against Bilbo’s, a deep contentment flooding through him down to his very bones. “If we are friends, I think I cannot be very sad.”

Bilbo smiled back. “Then we must be friends forever,” he said simply. “Shall we eat those buns now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _danak’urm:_ candle-worms, i.e. glow worms


End file.
